


In Sickness and In Health

by BeneficialAddiction



Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [32]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Based on a True Story, Caretaking, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: Clint gets sick. His home remedies aren't exactly doctor-approved.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Boxers, Briefs, and Other Shorts [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/698662
Comments: 57
Kudos: 319





	In Sickness and In Health

Phil doesn’t ask Clint about his time in the circus. 

He mostly doesn’t ask for professional reasons – he reads a lot of it in his file and the guilt of prying into the man’s personal life, his childhood trauma already weighs heavily on him by the time he drags the archer kicking and snarling into SHIELD. By the time he’s realized the extent of the man’s trust issues he’s already decided that if it doesn’t matter to the job, doesn’t affect Barton’s ability to be the Greatest Marksman the world has ever seen, then there’s no reason at all to pry into it. 

For a few years that’s mostly the way it goes, but then _Agent Barton_ becomes _Hawkeye_ becomes _Clint,_ and _Coulson_ becomes _Boss_ becomes… well, _Phil._

They start to trust each other, and they start to relax, and they start to share, and then around the time that Clint and Phil become Clint and Phil and Natasha, he realizes that there are other reasons he doesn’t ask about the circus. 

It’s roundabout really, not exactly a direct and purposeful thing. 

He falls in love slow you see. 

It’s been years, small things piling up and piling up until the proverbial straw that breaks the camel’s back, and who would have thought that a sore throat would be that breaking point. 

_“It’s not a sore throat!”_ Clint will later croak. _“It’s a death plague!”_

But that part doesn’t really matter. 

What matters is that Phil is in hopeless, stupid love with his asset, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wants Clint to share things with him - his life and his secrets - on a _personal level_ on quiet nights when they’re curled up together on the couch watching trashy tv and he feels safe enough to speak his sins and his insecurities of his own free will, not because the job requires it. 

So he doesn’t bring up the circus. 

What does this have to do with a sore throat you ask? 

Well, it went like this.

**AVAVA**

Phil catches Natasha just as she’s coming down the ramp of the quinjet off a solo mission she’d taken to Boca Raton. She’s usually quick to disappear after an op this long – where as he and Clint seek out her and each other’s company when they’ve been off alone, she likes to take some time by herself to reset, to shower off the false identity she’d worn and sleep away the fatigue before re-emerging as herself. She doesn’t look surprised to see him and doesn’t seem upset that he’s interrupting her typical routine, which he hopes is a good sign.

“Have you heard from Clint?” he asks, because even if she’s been dark and coded incommunicado, he doesn’t doubt for a second that they’ve been in contact with each other. 

“Have you not?” she counters quirking an eyebrow. 

The corner of Phil’s mouth tics in a frown – she’s been quietly threatening him with great sartorial harm for some time if he doesn’t man up and say something about his feelings. 

“Not since yesterday,” he says. “He’s not answering his phone.” 

Natasha eyes him and Phil knows what she’s thinking – why hasn’t he tracked it if he’s so concerned? 

He can’t lie – he’d thought about it – but he’s tried to respect Clint’s privacy a little better ever since he’d gone off-grounds and gotten an apartment over Bed Stuy a few months ago. He’d made it clear that he wasn’t trying to get away from Phil, or even SHIELD really, but it was obvious that he had wanted a little space. Natasha had teased him about finally growing up a little and Clint had blushed, but Phil… 

Well, he worries. 

“He texted me this morning, said he was sick,” she finally says, slowly, like she’s judging his response. 

Knowing her she probably is. 

Phil very carefully doesn’t react at all. 

“He thinks he might be coming down with bronchitis,” she continues. “Maxwell was only just starting to feel better when they pulled him back in on that op we ran last week.” 

“He hasn’t texted since this morning?” Phil confirms, and Natasha shakes her head no. 

“You should go check on him,” she says, turning to walk away. “You know how he gets when he’s sick.” 

And Phil does know – that’s half the reason his heart had seized up in his chest a second ago when she’d suggested it. 

Clint’s a cuddler, you see. 

With the people he trusts at least. 

Phil has no doubt he was touched-starved as a child, worse, physically abused, so now that he’s found his comfort level with him and Nat and even Sitwell and Morse and Woo, he gets snuggly whenever he’s feeling a little out of it. If that means sleep deprived on the ‘jet after a long mission or drunk at the bar on a Friday night or drugged to the gills after falling off yet another building, he can be counted on to curl up against the nearest source of trusted body heat and practically purr. 

It’s not that Phil doesn’t like this. 

It’s just that he sort of likes it too much. 

He’d love to be that person, that _only person_ except for maybe Natasha that Clint curls up with, but they don’t have that kind of relationship and Phil’s not sure they ever will. He’s absolutely certain that whatever bug Clint’s caught will have let him in a similar state if it’s bad enough that he’s turned his phone off for a nap, and a part of him… 

Well, a part of him doesn’t want to subject himself to that. 

It kind of hurts. 

A far bigger part of him is willing to walk through fire for Clint Barton, and if he’s sick enough to go off the grid without so much as a _Sorry Sir_ then Phil will absolutely suffer a little melancholy want to make sure that he’s alright. 

He stops off at a CVS drugstore on his way over to Barton’s apartment. He’s been there before – he knows exactly the kind of state the man’s fridge will be in. Grabbing a basket, he fills it up with Gatorade, canned chicken soup, Kleenex, cough drops, and some Vick’s Vaporub. Without knowing much else about what Clint’s managed to catch, he heads to the automatic checkout but makes a quick detour to grab a rawhide bone out of the pet aisle. 

Some good rest will probably help Clint out more than anything, and if Lucky’s happily occupied he’ll sleep that much better. 

As Phil rings himself up he smiles thinking about the scruffy, one-eyed canine Clint had rescued about the same time he’d acquired his new apartment. The friendly mutt reminded him a lot of the archer himself, and the way they’d found each other just reminds him of all the reasons he loves the man behind the bow. That anyone can have such a good heart and sweet disposition after the kinds of things Clint’s been through is a marvel in itself, and something Phil not only admires but adores. 

He manages to pack most of those feelings away on the short subway ride across the city. By the time he reaches Clint’s building and gets his neighbor Simone to buzz him up, he’s got himself mostly under control. He’s quite pleased that he’s managed to pull up his Agent Coulson mask considering he’s come looking to play nurse to a coworker without any invitation at all, but that goes out the window almost as soon as he pushes open the unlocked door. 

From his place on the threshold he can see straight through the loft to the living room where Clint’s lying down the length of the couch, his head thrown over the arm deep-throating a popsicle like breathing is something that other people do. 

Phil’s pretty sure his jaw hits the floor, and everything about professionalism goes out the window, because he can actually see the damn thing in the archer’s throat as he swallows around it and yes please, may he have some more? 

Everything about the way that his mind blanks and his body goes hot and his dick immediately starts to harden in his pants is completely and entirely personal, and the very first thing that comes out of his mouth when Clint opens his eyes and sees him standing there from his upside-down vantage point on the couch is _“You never told me you trained with the Sword-Swallower too.”_

Clint blinks, chokes, then pulls the popsicle out of his mouth and starts wheezing, half-laughing and half-coughing as he wraps an arm around his ribs and curls himself upright. 

“Oh god, don’t make me laugh,” he whimpers, tossing what’s left of the popsicle into the small trashcan he’s moved beside the coffee table. “It hurts.” 

Worried now, enough to cover his own embarrassment, Phil steps inside and leaves the door ajar behind him before hustling over to Clint’s side. He hasn’t been ambushed by Lucky yet, which means the dog is no doubt wandering the building making his rounds, and he doesn’t want to lock him out. Clint sighs through his nose and watches silently as he approaches, slumping back against the couch cushions, his head lolling. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, reaching out to lay a hand on Clint’s forehead, but the skin is dry and cool – no fever. 

“Throat hurts,” he explains, his voice rough as he makes a vague gesture in the direction of the trash can where the popsicle lays melting in the bottom of the empty liner. “Feel a little wheezy in my chest.” 

“Have you been to medical?” Phil asks, because he’s been working on the quarterly reviews for the last three days and hasn’t had a chance to make it through his email backlog, not even those flagged important. 

“This morning,” he replies, closing his eyes. “Thought it might be bronchitis – feels like that and stupid Maxwell had it when he came on board for the Rhode Island thing last week.” 

“Natasha said,” Phil admits. 

He wants to know why Clint hadn’t texted him to, but he can’t bring himself to ask. 

Instead, he starts bustling around, cleaning up the debris on the coffee table, careful to use a tissue to pick up the sticky popsicle sticks lying around. His cheeks are burning with the memory of his previous comment, thinking about the gutter that his brain had immediately jumped into, but Clint seems to have forgotten it already and almost looks like he’s falling asleep now that Phil’s here. 

“They gave you some steroids?” he asks quietly as he continues cleaning up, finding the bottle underneath a copy of TV Guide and scanning the label. 

“Five days’ worth,” Clint hums. “Already took the first two, kick it in the ass before it kicks mine.” 

“You need to rest,” he scolds, because he knows Clint won’t unless he’s made to. 

Though he can be profoundly lazy he’s also oddly driven at the worst possible times, and that certainly won’t help him get better faster. 

“I brought some soup; do you want to try something hot?” he asks as he heads toward the kitchen, but Clint’s eyes are still closed and his breathing has deepened, leveled off. 

This time he hardly even hums in response. 

Shaking his head fondly, Phil carries his bags into the kitchen and quietly puts things away, checking the freezer to make sure that there are indeed more popsicles if needed. He hadn’t even known you could get boxes of just the grape-flavored purple ones, but leave it to Clint to find them. 

He spends a half hour tidying up the kitchen as silently as possible before he comes back to the living room and finds Clint gently snoring right where he’d left him. He’s wearing sweats and a zip-up hoodie, thick socks on his feet, but Phil pulls the fleece throw off the back of the couch and wraps him up anyway. He could leave, he supposes – Clint wouldn’t fault him – but he can’t help but think that he would be quietly disappointed. He can’t really conscience that option himself, so he sits down in the armchair and turns a documentary on low until the door creaks open another hour later and Lucky comes trotting in. 

He perks up as soon as he sees Phil and bounds across the floor, nails clicking on the hardwood and tags jingling. Phil tries to shush him but his excited whimpers and the loud knocking of his tail against the furniture is enough to get Clint stirring, and when he blinks awake enough to sit up Lucky immediately abandons Phil for his master’s lap. 

“Hey buddy,” he says gruffly before swallowing hard. _“Ow.”_

“Try not to talk too much,” Phil advises, signing the words as well as saying them as he pushes to his feet. _‘Want to try some of that soup now?’_

_‘Please,’_ Clint signs back, lifting his hands to rub at his ears with a pained look on his face. 

_‘Take them out,’_ Phil signs. _‘I put you on a week’s stand-down.’_

As he turns toward the kitchen he’s warmed to the core by the relieved, grateful look on Clint’s face. He knows the archer doesn’t like going without his hearing aids if he can possibly help it, understandably, and he’s honored to be one of the few Clint lets himself be vulnerable around. From the corner of his eye he sees Clint snuggle back into the blankets, but misses the double-take of surprise that leads to a shy, speculative glance in his direction.

**AVAVA**

Phil leaves Clint with a mug of hot soup and Lucky with his bone and pretends that he doesn’t want to curl up beside them on the couch and spend the night. He tells himself that he’s done his duty as a friend without overstepping his boundaries as Clint’s handler and makes his way home, and he absolutely does not fall asleep thinking about the way Clint had swallowed down that popsicle like it was nothing.

He goes back to HQ the next day and forces himself to focus on his work instead of worrying over his asset. Though Clint has a disturbing habit of frequently falling (or leaping) off buildings and landing himself in medical with stress fractures or bone-deep bruises, he actually doesn’t get sick all that often. He jokingly credits his poor upbringing and lack of early vaccinations for giving him an advanced immune system, but all it really does it make things that much worse for everyone when he _does_ eventually fall ill. 

Far from milking his situation with the whiny ‘man-flu,’ he’s more likely to hide himself away to lick his wounds in private. Over the years he’d slowly learned to trust SHIELD medical, at least to the point that he’ll let them treat him, and it’s a relief to know that he’d gone to them as soon as he’d suspected that his health was taking a turn. 

Still, he can’t help but worry. 

He doesn’t hear anything from Clint – doesn’t even get one of those silly memes that he likes to send and that Phil only pretends to understand. 

No, he doesn’t hear anything, and five days later Clint’s medication is gone and he isn’t any better at all.

**AVAVA**

“How can they not know what’s wrong?” Clint croaks, sounding desperate and on the verge of tears. “They didn’t even test me for strep, they just said my throat _doesn’t look red.”_

He tries to get the last three words out in a mocking mimic of the doctor that had seen him, but the pain in his voice ruins the effect. 

“I still wish you’d go in to medical,” Phil says warningly as he navigates the standard-issue sedan he’d borrowed through midday traffic. 

“Why? They didn’t fix me last time,” Clint whines, huddling deeper into his hoodie as he leans against the passenger window. “They always look for the weird shit… I thought a regular old Urgent Care could at least diagnose some stupid strep throat.” 

“At least they gave you some antibiotics,” Phil consoles. “Hopefully in a few days they’ll clear everything up.” 

“That doesn’t help me _now!”_ Clint snaps, the tightness in his throat once again taking all the sting out of his tone. “I’ve had _broken bones_ that don’t hurt this much Phil!” 

He believes him. 

That’s the terrible thing – Phil actually believes him. 

Clint’s cheeks are getting red and his lashes are gleaming with gathered tears and he can see the pain written physically across his face. 

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs softly, hoping to calm him down before he gets any more upset. “You’re going to be ok. We’ll get you home and get you warm…” 

But Clint’s eyes are squeezed tight shut and there are tears rolling silently down his cheeks, and there’s nothing else that Phil can do except just that – get him home. 

Reaching over, he lays his hand on Clint’s forearm and squeezes gently before returning his attention to the road. He was happy, don’t get him wrong, glad that Clint had called him for a ride when he found himself discharged from the local Urgent Care too exhausted to navigate the subway home, but… 

But that doesn’t make him any more comfortable with all this. 

Clint’s right – SHIELD medical hadn’t been able to figure out what was wrong with him, even after Phil had insisted they run his labs again. While they are more likely to look for alien diseases than the common cold, they hadn’t found any more than the ER apparently had. 

Twenty minutes later he’s guiding the miserable archer back into his apartment and turning him toward the loft, but Clint side-steps him and heads for the couch. 

“Can’t sleep anyway,” he says throatily, swallowing repeatedly with a grimace. “Wake up, three, four o’clock every night cause it hurts so much. Coughing but not coughing anything up, all dried out. Scared to swallow…” 

Phil frowns, thinks about the symptoms he’s listing off. 

He’s no doctor, but... 

“Does your throat hurt when you’re not swallowing?” he asks, wondering if he’s just thinking too much or if he’s maybe on to something. 

Clint pauses, his eyes going all unfocused for a moment, then he shakes his head. 

“No,” he says thickly, and Phil hears the click when he swallows again, almost compulsively. “Just, like... when the sides of my throat touch when I swallow. Feels all swollen...” 

“Which is why you were using the ice,” Phil concludes, thinking back to the popsicles in the freezer. 

Clint makes a humming sound, sinking down onto the couch and curling onto his side, once again closing his eyes tightly shut as he rubs his face against the arm. Leaving him to it, Phil disappears into the kitchen on a hunch, tracking down an unopened bottle of Ibuprofen and a half-full bottle of whiskey. Bringing both with him back into the living room, he finds Clint huddled beneath his knitted afghan trying his best to fall asleep despite his previous protests. 

“Here,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table and nudging him with the bottle of pills. “Take four.” 

“Four?” Clint practically squeaks, looking at him with alarm. 

“You’re more than big enough to take that much,” he assures. “You’re a block of solid muscle; Ibuprofen will take down the swelling in your throat and help you sleep for a while.” 

Clint chews his lip, looks dubious as he turns the bottle in his hand, but eventually he pops the cap, peels off the safety foil and shakes four pills into his palm before throwing them back dry. He’s got them swallowed before Phil can hand over the whiskey. 

“Jesus boss, mixing meds with alcohol?” he asks, trying to joke but just sounding like he’s in pain, like he wants reassurance, promises. “I’m not dying am I?” 

“It’ll help kill anything you’ve got living at the back of your throat,” Phil says, watching as Clint tosses his head back and takes two hearty slugs. “And it will also help you sleep.” 

Clint just huffs and snuggles down again, rolling onto his back when Phil clicks on an old episode of Dog Cops for some soft background noise. 

“I’m going down to the drug store,” he murmurs. “Is there anything you want?” 

“Jus’ come back,” Clint breathes, already halfway asleep. 

Phil’s chest tightens but Clint’s already drifting off, and he knows he can’t hold him to anything he says right now. He’s exhausted, worn down, already looking a little thinner with dark circles under his eyes. Whatever bug he’s caught is taking it out of the normally hale and healthy agent, and Phil needs to focus on one crisis at a time. 

After carefully engaging the multiple locks on Clint’s front door, Phil jogs down to the corner store and picks up a humidifier as well as three bottles of Nyquil. He hadn’t lied – Clint's a solid block of muscle and can handle the bumped-up dosage. He can’t and won’t keep slugging whiskey like a fish, but the Ibuprofen will take down the swelling, the Nyquil will soothe his throat and help him sleep, and the prescribed antibiotics will hopefully fight off whatever bug he’s managed to pick up. 

Clint’s knocked out when he gets back, so he unboxes the humidifier in the kitchen and fills it with Vick’s and saltwater. He sets it up near the end of the couch and gets it gurgling away, praying that the warm steam will do its part to soothe Clint’s airways and keep him asleep till he’s actually ready to wake up. He has to shoo Lucky away, and then thinks that maybe he’ll start some homemade soup to cooking, and less than an hour later finally admits that he’s fussing about to keep himself from leaving. 

It’s stupid – he's a grown man, Clint’s friend and his handler, and if he wants to stay and keep an eye on him no one’s going to judge him for it. He doesn’t need the excuse or any more justification than that. 

He falls asleep in the armchair near Clint’s feet a few hours later, and doesn’t wake up until the next morning. 

Thankfully, neither does Clint.

**AVAVA**

It’s a terrible two weeks before the archer fully recovers. The first few days are the worst of course, and Phil keeps him dosed with Ibuprofen and Nyquil every four or five hours. He knows you’re not supposed to mix the two but it’s the only thing that seems to help and he’d checked with medical that it won’t do any serious lasting damage. The nurses and Clint’s favorite doctor had gone white and wide-eyed when Phil had finally dragged him back in, shocked by the tears streaming down Clint’s face and the shallow way he was breathing, the pained swallowing that at this point had become almost compulsive. They still couldn’t diagnose him with anything and said that really there didn’t seem to be anything seriously wrong other than the sore, swollen throat, so they’d both stormed out and gone back to their corner-store remedies.

Clint sleeps on the couch next to the humidifier with Lucky curled up at the other end keeping his feet warm, and Phil swings by to check on him every night after work. He doesn’t think he’s left at a decent time this many nights in a row in his entire life, and Natasha, who has re-emerged from her lair after doing a little post-mission recovery of her own, watches him flutter and fuss with the most antagonistically knowing smile Phil has ever seen on her face. 

He knows exactly how head-over-heels in love he is with one Clinton Francis Barton thank you, and doesn’t need the smug little smirks to compound his misery. 

When Clint finally starts to recover Phil slowly starts cutting back on his visits, until one night he’s staying late in his office signing off on the archer’s clearance to return to missions and he realizes he misses the whole thing. Not Clint being sick, or being so miserably in pain, but being close, being involved. 

It’s stupid – he and Clint are friends and they regularly spend time together outside of work – but there had been a level of intimacy and domesticity over the last few weeks that was new. 

It was the sort of acknowledgement of their unresolved tension that Phil rarely allows himself, because when it’s over he’s still left alone and it sucks. The office is quiet, the halls deserted, and he’s left staring at his computer screen thinking about popsicles and the color purple, arrows and targets and a smile that makes his heart skip, and then there’s a knock on the door. 

Clint comes in looking nervous and a little sheepish, and Phil immediately feels his brow furrow. 

“You sure you’re recovered enough to start back up with the pranks?” he asks, because he’s seen that look before. 

Clint opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it again, biting down on his lower lip. 

“Not a prank,” he says, careful yet earnest. “Not this time, I promise.” 

A red flag waves at the back of Phil’s mind and he frowns. 

“You _are better_ though?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Clint nods, shuffling awkwardly and hesitantly closer. “At least enough to do this.” 

And then he’s leaning forward and Phil’s being kissed, and he’s so shocked that all he can do is sit there at his desk with a loop playing over in his head – _Clint’s kissing me..._

What feels like a lifetime and yet only half-a-second later, Clint’s pulls back and looks at him nervously, his eyes scanning Phil’s face. 

“But um, maybe not well enough that I can’t write this off as still being a little foggy if I read things...” 

But Phil cuts him off, kissing him back with a heat and intensity that shocks him. His hand wraps around the back of Clint’s neck and he feels hands fist in his lapels to pull him closer and he feels happiness and surprise and a pure, unadulterated joy swell up so big in his chest that he can’t breathe. 

Or maybe they’ve just been kissing too long. 

He thinks there’s no such thing, but Clint’s pulling back and looking at him quizzically, and Phil just smiles like an idiot. 

“So this is good?” he asks. “You want to get coffee with me? Or dinner or... I mean, the whole thing? Not just sex?” 

“All of it,” Phil agrees. “How did you...” 

“Hey, Hawkeye remember?” he replies with a grin and a saucy wink. “Saw the way you were staring at me with that stupid popsicle down my throat.” 

Phil blushes violently and shifts on his feet, half embarrassment, half sudden physical discomfort, and Clint laughs. 

“Sorry babe,” he murmurs easily, leaning in to smack a kiss to Phil’s cheek like that simple, casual pet name hadn’t melted his heart like butter. “Pretty sure I should wait at least another week for that.” 

“Sure,” Phil says dumbly, his mind blanking out at the suggestion. “No rush.” 

Clint laughs again, bright and happy, and slips in close to snuggle into a hug, tucking his face into Phil’s neck. 

“Don’t really want to rush things any way,” he murmurs, his lips against Phil’s throat. “Wanted this for a long time. Didn’t think I would ever get to have it till a couple weeks ago. One good thing to come out of whatever crap I caught huh? Even if I do have to wait another week to get your cock in my mouth.” 

Said cock starts to take an interest in the warm body pressed against it and they both groan. 

“It’s fine,” Phil grumbles, hiding his face against Clint’s shoulder and pushing with his forehead, squirming but staying close, happy with the contact despite the discomfort in his pants. “We’ve got time.” 

“All the time,” Clint agrees, and it’s true. 

They’ve played this game for years. 

He hasn’t gotten tired of it yet.

**Author's Note:**

> I went through the worst illness of my life about a month ago and to this day no one has told me what it was. Lying in bed suffering I wondered just how our beloved archer would handle such a thing.


End file.
